


Spaghetti Night

by townshend



Category: Silent Hill
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-17
Updated: 2010-09-17
Packaged: 2017-10-11 22:15:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/117676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/townshend/pseuds/townshend
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mother provides.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Spaghetti Night

**Author's Note:**

> Russian version (translated by KSScream): http://ficbook.net/readfic/507457

Ever since his door had been chained and Henry had begun the nightmare of the 21 Sacraments, he hadn't felt hungry. Several times during the ordeal, he'd tried to eat something just because he knew he should, but food tasted like ash in his mouth (especially after witnessing what had happened to the victims like Jasper). The one time he'd tried after the apartment had begun to be, for lack of a better word, _infected_ , he'd opened a box of cereal only to find it crawling with mealworms.

That had been the last time Henry had tried to eat something.

And yet he noticed that the cabinets of room 302, despite Henry's bad shopping habits, were almost always filled. The young boy would sometimes go to the kitchen and emerge with a cookie or a glass of milk or a juice box, things Henry knew he hadn't bought before everything had happened. He would watch as little Walter would bring his treats back and sit on the couch, his feet not quite reaching the floor, looking very pleased with himself and his mother's ability to provide.

Henry didn't imagine little Walter got hungry, either. And he'd never seen Walter go for so much as a glass of water in the kitchen. Yet it was still there, and, apparently, still full of food.

One night, curiosity got the better of him (it had been a particularly boring night, as Walter had kicked him out of his bedroom and had locked the door, leaving Henry the living room, where little Walter often had the TV turned to very old, very strange cartoons), and he got up from the armchair, crossing the room into the kitchen. This seemed to catch little Walter's attention, as the boy glanced over, breaking his gaze from the television to Henry, watching him from over the bar.

"What are you doing, Henry?" he asked. It was always with his name on the end. It was an irritating habit he'd picked up from his older counterpart, and it drove Henry crazy. Even so, Henry didn't show his slight irritation. It wasn't little Walter's fault Henry was losing his mind. Not entirely, anyway.

Henry turned towards little Walter, leaning against the bar, staring out into the living room.

"...What do you like to eat, Walter?" he asked.

"Eat?" Little Walter tilted his head, looking confused for only a moment. "I like cookies. Mom has really good ones in there. They never let me have cookies in the orphanage. Do you like cookies, Henry?"

Henry almost, almost smiled. Instead, he glanced over his shoulder towards the cabinets.

"Cookies, huh? They're pretty good. But what about for meals? Kids should get good nutrition from warm meals. That's what my mom taught me."

"Really?" The small boy sat up a little straighter, and then, after a moment, decided he wanted a better look. He got off the couch, moving across the room and to one of the two bar chairs. It took him a moment to scramble up onto the chair, but when he did, he looked out over the kitchen, and then to Henry. "I bet mom thinks so, too! Henry, you should help mom make dinner for us!"

The talk of room 302 being 'mom' always put Henry a little on edge, but coming from little Walter it was a little more cute and a little less creepy.

"What should we make?" Henry asked. "Sometimes when I was good, my mom would let me pick what to make."

Henry was already rolling up the sleeves on his shirt. He remembered that, when he did bother to make food for himself (ramen, Stovetop, etc), he'd usually cook shirtless. Now, he hardly ever went without a shirt. The deep, red cuts that stretched across his chest were the last things he wanted to see.

"Do you think mom will let me pick?" the young boy asked.

"I think whatever you wanted would be here in cupboard. Your mom's a very generous... person, right?" Henry had hesitated only a moment. It was something he was sure Walter would catch, but the young child before him did not.

"You're right! In that case..." Little Walter frowned, trying to think back to his time in the orphanage. The food had never been good... especially in the circle prison. But he remembered one time when he'd gone to see his mother in Ashfield by bus, and a nice lady had given him money to get something to eat. He'd taken it to the first place he could find, and the lady at the counter of the restaurant had given him something really good. What had that been called again? He frowned in thought. "Spaghetti?"

Henry was a little surprised with the request, to be honest. When he'd been a child, he'd always wanted macaroni-and-cheese and french fries. That Walter wanted spaghetti was still somewhat of a juvenile request, but Henry hadn't been expecting it.

Now he just had to hope that the ingredients would be in the cupboard as he'd promised, that the faucet would run water, and that the stove would work.

All very important things.

"Spaghetti. Good one. I like spaghetti." Henry turned towards the cabinets and opened the one he'd usually kept dry food in.

The only thing inside were two packets of noodles and a glass jar of spaghetti sauce.

In slight surprise, Henry reached in, pulling the food out and setting it on the counter. He was so shocked that he hadn't noticed the sound of a lock undoing down the hallway behind him and the door opening after it. When he turned back to look at little Walter, he didn't even notice the older man standing just inside the hallway, watching the two in the kitchen carefully.

"Wow! Mom must like spaghetti too, right, Henry?"

"I guess so." Henry bent, searching one of the lower cabinets for a deep pot to cook the noodles in. He found one (and a smaller one for the sauce to cook in) and took it to the sink, staring only for a moment at the handles. His hesitation was understandable -- the last time he'd seen the faucet on, it had been pouring with a deep red that had stained the sink beneath. The stain seemed to be gone, though, and maybe that meant something...

He twisted the knob, and cool water poured from the faucet. Today was a very good day.

Setting the pot under the faucet, Henry waited for it to fill about half-way before picking it up and setting it on the stove. He flipped the burner on, reached to put some salt in the water, and turned towards little Walter again.

Only when he glanced over, there were two people sitting at the bar. Henry almost dropped the salt shaker in shock, his cheeks coloring red in embarrassment. How long had Walter been there?!

"What are you doing, Henry?" Walter asked, quietly. He didn't seem annoyed -- actually, he looked genuinely curious. This helped to ease Henry's fear, but only slightly.

"Uh, we're... making dinner. Right, Walter?" The question was directed to the younger one, and Walter seemed to understand this, as he glanced towards the young boy beside him.

"Henry said mother says we should eat warm meals for nutrition."

"Is that so." Walter's gaze swept over the kitchen, finally landing on Henry, who was hoping to God that he hadn't made a wrong move. "In that case, I hope there will be enough for me."

Letting out a sigh of relief, Henry turned back to the pot, checking the water. There were a few very small bubbles forming on the wall of the pot, but it was far from boiling. At least that meant heat was being generated. It was more than he had hoped for.

"There will be," he answered, albeit quietly. He hadn't said a lot to Walter since "the incident" -- when he'd taken his numbers, when the knife had plunged into his skin, causing dark red streaks of blood to roll across his chest and onto the sheets of the bed as Walter pushed the five numbers into his skin.

The memory was just as fresh in his mind as the cuts on his chest.

There was a calm sort of silence that filled the kitchen as Henry waited for the water to boil. When the bubbles began to roll to the top, breaking the surface of the water, growing in size and number, Henry tore open the plastic noodle packets and slipped them under the water. Little Walter got up on the chair, leaning forward in curiosity to watch Henry as he went. Henry could feel the eyes on him -- both sets -- but he ignored them. He knew checking the time on the clock in the living room would be worthless, and he didn't have any other kind of clock (not that it would work), so he'd just have to watch the food carefully to make sure it didn't overcook.

Turning to the counter, he grabbed the glass jar of spaghetti sauce and unscrewed it, pouring it into the small pot. He set it on the second burner, flipping it on, and went to the cupboard to find a strainer. Setting that in the sink, he checked on the noodles. He could feel Walter's eyes on him all the while. Little Walter's gaze mostly seemed to stay on the stove, and the bubbling pan of water filled with noodles.

Glancing towards Walter as if to say "what?", Henry leaned against the counter beside the sink, watching the two very closely. Walter didn't blink -- Henry knew he'd lose any kind of staring contest with the man, so, after a minute or two, he simply looked away, his gaze resting on the floor. He remembered finding his shoes in the kitchen, bloody footsteps leading from the door he so desperately wanted to get out of.

Life with Walter and the little one... wasn't so bad. Henry wasn't much for company, but sometimes the child could be entertaining (like tonight). And Walter... well, Walter was something of a terror for Henry. He remembered reading _It_ as a child and balking at the thought of Pennywise. Walter was worse.

But sometimes, when Henry wasn't so scared he was crying, Walter could almost be nice. Human, even. Like tonight. Sure, his gaze was making Henry uncomfortable, but he didn't have a gun trained on him, and that was something, wasn't it?

"Do you think Mom will give us good food, Henry?" Little Walter asked, snapping the man out of his thoughts. Henry blinked, looking up at the curious eyes on his face. He didn't mind so much that he was doing all the cooking and little Walter was chalking it up to "mom" cooking with Henry as the "helper". Let him believe what he wanted. Even Henry couldn't contest that somehow, the ingredients had appeared in the cupboard.

 _The 'Descent of the Holy Mother' be naught but the Descent of the Devil_ , Henry thought. That was what he had found in Joseph's apartment, what the Book of the Crimson Ceremony had told him. Could that really be true? What kind of Devil gave milk and cookies and cartoon shows to little children? The apartment kept the water running, the electricity working... it seemed as long as Walter wanted it, it worked. One time, Henry had even turned the radio on to one of his favorite songs (it had dissolved into static after that). Walter must have been in a particularly good mood, that day.

"I bet so. Your mom wouldn't want you to eat anything bad. Aren't the cookies she gives you always really good, too?"

"Yeah!" The young boy flopped back in his seat (he'd almost been lying on the counter with how far he was leaning) and smiled. "We should make cookies with mom some time, too. Homemade cookies! Are they good that way, Henry?"

"The best." Henry grabbed a spoon, stirring the red sauce in the pot. It was bubbling, which definitely meant it was warmed through. That was good enough. Henry turned off the heat, and, when it became apparent the noodles were done, too, he flipped the burner off, grabbing the pot and carefully taking it to the sink. He thought about how much it would hurt, dropping the pot of boiling water on himself, thought about the blisters from the burns, thought about Jasper on fire and the stench of burning flesh. He felt nauseous. Was Walter making him think this way?

Safely pouring the water and noodles into the strainer, Henry smiled a little at his handiwork, quickly running the noodles under cool water to keep them from sticking to each other. He opened the cabinet, grabbed three bowls, and set them on the counter. Filling them with noodles and then sauce over them, Henry grabbed two bowls, setting one each in front of the two Walters, along with forks.

"This looks so good," the young boy said. His eyes were practically shining. Henry had to admit -- it felt good to make a kid feel that way by something so simple as cooking a meal. Even though Henry knew the credit would go to "Mother".

"Dig in," Henry instructed, and Walter waited until little Walter did before picking up his own fork. Henry had never seen Walter eat before, but the man did so in a precise, clean manner. Despite how messy spaghetti was, as a meal, Walter looked prim and proper. Walter must be precise in everything he did...

And the younger Walter wasn't too far off the mark, either. Henry wondered if that had anything to do with the way the two (one?) were raised -- and slight infraction could be ammunition used to send them to the prison. And as Henry had been able to garner from his time there, it hadn't been a very pleasant place at all.

"Aren't you going to eat, Henry?" the young boy asked. Henry blinked, looking up, once again shocked out of his thoughts.

"Oh..." Henry glanced behind him to the bowl on the counter, the one left for him.

"Yes, Henry," Walter said quietly. "Aren't you?"

"Of course." Henry picked up the bowl, slowly eating.

To his surprise, the food didn't taste bad at all. In fact, it was... probably the best spaghetti he'd ever had before. Spaghetti wasn't one of Henry's favorites, but this was pretty damn good. It tasted like it came from a restaurant -- certainly not from the kitchen of a twenty-something photographer who'd never really cooked a day in his life.

And that was amazing.

"It's really good," little Walter said, and Henry nodded in agreement, smiling just a little to himself.

Maybe living this way really wasn't so bad after all. For a moment, Henry could almost understand why Walter felt the way he did -- the group of three felt so much like family, like they had a bonding moment like Henry had never gotten in his own home. "Mother" didn't seem so absent in that moment -- Henry could feel her presence hanging around the room, could feel the bond that threaded them together -- something undoubtedly feminine and maternal.

And it felt... good.


End file.
